The Distant Wound
The rain did not fall. It was dispensed. I watched it from the window of my shop, a thin, grey mist that the city’s filtration grids pushed down against the glass. It smelled of ozone and wet iron. I wiped the condensation from the pane with a rag that cost more than my lunch. The droplets left streaks, blurring the view of the street below. People moved in straight lines, heads down, umbrellas...
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